


When The Wind Roars

by ScarlettFAngell



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Emhyr is a BAMF, Emhyr is his own warning, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Geralt is a BAMF, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kissing, Light Bondage, M/M, Mentions of Slavery, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Post-Hearts of Stone (The Witcher 3 DLC), Post-The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Public Blow Jobs, Secrets, Semi-Public Blow Jobs, Semi-Public Sex, Slavery, Spies & Secret Agents, Undercover Missions, nakedness (lots of it)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2020-06-30 01:47:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19843018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarlettFAngell/pseuds/ScarlettFAngell
Summary: Emhyr var Emreis has discovered a slave trading and fighting ring operating in the bowls of Nilfgaard's underground, and he's decided to hire the Witcher, Geralt, to help him investigate and dismantle the operation. From the inside. Slavery is banned in Nilfgaard and Emhyr is not impressed. He wants to know who defies him and why. And he plans to do it personally.Geralt was not expecting such a proposition from Emhyr var Emreis and he is definitely not nearly drunk enough for this.





	1. Into My Garden Stole

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, I've been working on this a while, and I just decided "screw it, i'm posting the first chapter!", so here it is! And, yeah, I'm kind of just...picking and choosing lore to include? I haven't read the books and I've only played some of the Witcher 3 game, so pretty much assume most things from the games apply here? So, apologies in advance if I screw anything up. This is most definitely AU, and I don't claim to know very much. I am relying extensively on the Witcher Wiki for my information and research, so I may have things wrong or things may have happened/be different to what you, the reader, knows/is aware of from this point on.
> 
> Regardless, please enjoy!

_There in the tomb the dark grows blacker,_   
_But wind comes up from the shore:_   
_They shake when the winds roar,_   
_Old bones upon the mountain shake._

**_\- Williams Butler Yeats_**

* * *

_I was angry with my friend:_   
_I told my wrath, my wrath did end._   
_I was angry with my foe:_   
_I told it not, my wrath did grow._

**_\- William Blake_ **

**Chapter One: Into My Garden Stole**  
  
 ** _Emhyr stared down at the report_ on** his desk, hands pressed together in front of his mouth. He was alone in his office, and he was not happy with what the report had to say. According to Vattier, there was an underground slavery ring being run somewhere in Nilfgaard. He scanned the words again, taking note of every single crime that Vattier had listed--from rape and murder, to slavery and torture. If he could think of a crime, it would probably be on the list. And top of that list was _treason_.  
  
He exhaled carefully and stood up, crossing to the window and peering out into the Imperial Palace Gardens. Cirilla was by the pond, sitting on the ledge and peering down into the water. Probably watching the carp swim about. Emhyr sighed and crossed his arms over his chest, a slight frown marring his features. He was glad that Geralt had brought Cirilla back to him, but at great cost to their relationship. She would forgive them both, in time, but that time was running out, and he needed to hand over control of the empire to his daughter. But first...  
  
Scowling, Emhyr tore himself away from the window and stalked back over to the desk. He planted his hands on it and stared at the report again. He read it for the thousandth time and sighed. He needed to deal with the slavery ring, and he needed to do it before he handed the empire over to Cirilla. And he'd need Geralt's help.  
  
He really hadn't wanted to summon the Witcher for help, but, well. Desperate times called for desperate measures. Not that he'd ever admit to that aloud, and especially not within hearing range of his staff--or his daughter. Cirilla was fierce enough without him mentioning her foster father, let alone threatening him. He'd learn that the hard way the first time round. Geralt and Yennefer, both. He couldn't use them against her, or Cirilla said she'd leave him.  
  
He frowned down at it and sighed again, slowly taking his seat. He’d sent a messenger for Geralt over a month ago and he’d received a response from the Witcher along the lines of being there when he was done with his current contract. Emhyr has not been impressed, but he hadn’t been surprised by the response either. He’d been keeping tabs and he knew what Geralt’s current contract was about. Some kind of monstrosity was tormenting the locals in northern Toussaint somewhere in the vicinity of the old Elven ruins in Vedette Valley. Emhyr’s messenger had found him at the inn and returned with Geralt’s message and a description of the monster. Emhyr was fairly certain it was some kind of fiend and no, he hadn’t been researching the Witcher bestiary, thank you very much.  
  
Well, maybe a little.  
  
Emhyr propped his elbow on the desk and planted his chin in his palm, studying not only the report but also all the evidence that he’d gathered so far. Most of it was mere rumour or conjecture and none was proof enough to do anything about it. He’d have to infiltrate the slavery ring from the inside and slowly catalogue all the players before methodically dismantling it. Which brought him back to needing Geralt’s help and the lack of the Witcher’s presence. The petty bastard was probably making him wait.  
  
He stood and crossed to his sideboard and just as he picked up a decanter to pour himself a drink. Emhyr paused, glanced down at his empty glass and the decanter of brandy and sighed. He set it down and returned to the desk, retaking his seat as he called for Mererid to enter. He was not surprised to see a disgruntled Witcher follow the chamberlain in, completely disregard propriety and take a seat that he proceeded to sprawl out in. Much to Mererid’s disappointment if the glare his chamberlain sent in Geralt’s direction was anything to go by. Emhyr simply raised an eyebrow.  
  
“Well?” Emhyr prompted when Geralt did nothing more than stare right at him. It gave him the chance to take note of The Witcher’s appearance. And his smell. He was covered in what appeared to be ichor and stank of sulphur. Definitely a fiend, then. Geralt also seemed to be favouring his left side. Apparently, he'd ridden straight to the Palace from collecting his reward. Emhyr’s gaze narrowed. “Witcher.”  
  
“Emhyr.” Geralt’s gaze flickered to his chamberlain, who was lingering by the door, and Emhyr glanced at him.  
  
“Mererid,” he ordered, “leave us.”  
  
The chamberlain bowed low and went out, closing the door behind him. As soon as it was closed, Emhyr stood and crossed back over to the sideboard to pour them both a drink of brandy. He came back over, set one glass in front of Geralt and then sat down again, sipping his drink slowly. Geralt glanced down at the drink, then up at him and then picked up the glass and drained it within seconds.  
  
“So,” Emhyr offered softly. “A fiend? In Toussaint?”  
  
Geralt grunted and set the glass down. “Not the first time,” he said and it spoke volumes that he didn’t even bother to ask how Emhyr knew about it. Probably figured the messenger told him. Which wasn’t far from the truth, to be honest. “So, what’s this contract that’s so important about?”  
  
Emhyr gave him a look and leaned back in his seat. “There’s a problem I need to deal with before I abdicate the throne and hand the empire over to Cirilla.”  
  
Geralt heaved himself out of the chair with a grimace and headed for the sideboard. Emhyr watched him closely and made a mental note to call for a healer as soon as their conversation was over. Geralt sniffed through the decanters for a moment before he picked up the brandy and brought it back to the desk. He poured himself a large portion and sat down again, a little more gingerly this time.  
  
“Oh? Do tell. It’s not often that the Emperor of Nilfgaard needs help—or asks for it. Especially when he’s asking it of me.”  
  
Emhyr watched him a moment longer, trying to judge the other man’s mood before he exhaled and set his glass down in a clear space. He shuffled the papers on his desk around a little and then gestured to all the feeble evidence he’d collected. He might as well just come straight out with it. Geralt reacted better to honesty and straightforwardness than he did to any pretty words Emhyr could use to beat around the bush, so to speak.  
  
“It appears that there is a thriving slave trade in Nilfgaard’s underground that needs exterminating.”  
  
Geralt stared at him a moment, drink raised half-way to his mouth. He lowered it slightly and frowned. “Why didn’t you just say that straight up? I could’ve sent another Witcher to deal with the fiend and been here within a fortnight.”  
  
Emhyr shrugged. “I did not want to let the ones responsible for the slavery ring know that I was onto them.”  
  
The Witcher snorted, glanced at the nearly-full glass and then at the decanter of brandy. “I am not nearly drunk enough for this.”  
  
Emhyr raised an eyebrow. "No one's stopping you," he said and turned back to his paperwork. He sent the papers a narrow-eyed glare, even as he saw Geralt knock back his drink and pour another in his peripheral. "Nilfgaard does not appreciate the use of slavery. We pay our servants and they benefit from their employment greatly."  
  
Geralt set the empty glass down with a sigh. "Yes, yes, and you're all the better for it," he said, making Emhyr glance up. The Witcher was grimacing, one hand tight to his side now. "I've heard it all before, Emhyr. You don't have to spout the Empire's propaganda at me."  
  
"That is not what I was doing--"  
  
"It is, and you know it."  
  
Emhyr scowled and switched the subject. "You're injured."  
  
Geralt paused, mouth open as if he were about to launch into a lecture. He snapped it shut and glanced down at his hand with a raised eyebrow. "So I am." Then he shot Emyhr a sharp look. "Don't you change the subject on me."  
  
"I would never," he said, raising his hands defensively. It got a little snort out of the Witcher, and then Geralt relaxed in his seat. Emhyr silently waited as the other man poured himself another glass of brandy. "Regardless, Geralt. I do need your help."  
  
"I can see that," Geralt drawled and slouched back in the chair. "So, what's first on our to do list?"  
  
Emhyr sighed. "First off, you are going to let a healer see to that injury and then you are going to bathe."  
  
"Always with the bathing," the Witcher muttered, and Emhyr would have laughed if not for the seriousness of the topic of their conversation. Geralt made a go on gesture and poured himself another glass.  
  
"Then we shall discuss this further," Emhyr added, leaning back in his own seat. "As far as everyone should be concerned, you are here because you were hired to watch Cirila's back--and mine." He offered the Witcher a sly look and Geralt's eyebrows rose. "There's been a rumour that someone may attempt to assassinate me...again. Hence your presence."  
  
"And I suppose said rumour hints that it might be some kind of unnatural attempt?"  
  
Emhyr inclined his head. "Of course."  
  
"Well, then," Geralt said and downed his drink. "Get that healer in here."  
  
Without further ado, Emhyr called for Mererid and summoned a healer, and then he and Geralt fell into subtle banter until the healer arrived, accompanied by Ciaran aep Easnillen. He took noticed when Geralt went very still and cast him a questioning look. Emhyr ignored it and instead turned to the pair.  
  
"Ciaran," he said and the young elf inclined his head. "You're met Geralt before." He gestured to the Witcher, but Ciaran merely frowned at him. "And this, Geralt, is the imperial healer—”  
  
“Avallac'h.”  
  
“So we meet again, _Gwynbleidd_.” The older elf—Emhyr’s healer—said and inclined his head to first Emhyr, then Geralt. “Your Majesty.”  
  
“You’ve met?” Emhyr asked, raising his eyebrows at the elf.  
  
“We have,” Geralt grunted and Emhyr glanced towards the Witcher. He watched as Geralt just started unbuckling all his gear. “Well, then, old man. Get on with it.”  
  
Emhyr glanced between the two, curious now as Avallac’h just went to Geralt ad began tending to him with an easy familiarity that he couldn’t have missed. Ciaran followed at a slower pace, still frowning slightly at the Witcher.  
  
“How do you feel today, Ciaran?” Emhyr asked while the older elf was distracted by the deep puncture in Geralt’s side. How the man rode all the way from northern Toussaint to the City of Golden Towers with that bad an injury, Emhyr would never know. He knew of a Witcher’s healing abilities, so it made him wonder. How bad was it initially before when Geralt’s injury to look like this now?  
  
“Better, Your Majesty,” the elfling murmured, edging around towards Emhyr and clearly giving the Witcher a wide berth. Emhyr offered the younger man his hand and Ciaran folded into his side willingly. He caught Geralt’s raised eyebrow and pointedly looked between the Witcher and the archmage. Geralt smirked and leaned over a little more to let Avallac’h get a better look at his injury. The elf was muttering in Elder Speech, something about the Witcher needing to take better care of himself, least _Zireael_ —the little Swallow— would worry too much about him. Geralt just rolled his eyes.  
  
“That is good, Ciaran,” Emhyr said, turning to stroke the young elf’s hair. “And your memories?”  
  
“Still as scattered as ever, Your Majesty.” It was spoken into his shoulder, and Emhyr found himself wondering just what the young elf could remember of his time before the prison barge and his subsequent torture there at the hands of truly despicable men. “I…am sorry that I disappoint you…”  
  
Emhyr turned fully to Ciaran and bundled him into his arms, aware of Geralt’s gaze on them. “Hush, _aen calm,_ _feainnewedd_ ,” Emhyr murmured lowly, only for Ciaran, even though he knew the Witcher could still hear. “ _Visse gead'tocht gaedeen, beagyn.”_  
  
When Emhyr glanced over at the Witcher again, Geralt was watching him with something akin to respect in his eyes. Emhyr met his gaze and the Witcher blinked, and it was gone. In its place was more raised eyebrows. Emhyr just gave him a look and the Witcher smirked, turning his attention to Avallac’h.  
  
“How badly did I fuck up this time?” he asked, and Emhyr was thoroughly distracted by the way the Witcher’s lips shaped the words. He tore his gaze off the man’s face and glanced down at Ciaran again.  
  
“Bad enough,” Avallac’h replied, and Emhyr tuned their words out to focus on the way Ciaran had tensed at the curse word. He frowned, worried for the little elfling. And for his sudden attraction to the imprudent Witcher sitting across from him. For Ciaran, there must have been something to trigger the reaction to Geralt’s swearing. For himself, Emhyr wasn’t sure what had made him suddenly think Geralt was attractive. Perhaps he had always been so, or perhaps it was the supposed implications he had in mind for the Witcher’s presence in the capital? Perhaps, somehow, he was looking forward to their close proximity? Whatever the reason, he was suddenly unsure of whether he could—and would—keep his hands to himself or not. From Geralt’s reaction, the man found it amusing.

Emhyr was not looking forward to their interactions later that night. No, not at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations;  
> Gwynbleidd = white wolf.  
> Zireael = swallow.  
> aen calm, feainnewedd = be calm, Sun-Child/Child of the Sun.  
> Visse gead'tocht gaedeen, beagyn = you have done well, little one.


	2. All Things Can Tempt Me So

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt takes a bath--and is interrupted--and then attends dinner with the var Emries household and Emhyr's inner circle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the second chapter. I've switched POVs, so now it's Geralt's. That's generally how this is probably gonna go--Emhyr, Geralt, Emhyr and so on--and hopefully I can also aim for longer chapters. Enjoy!

_All things can tempt me from this craft of verse:_   
_One time it was a woman's face, or worse --_   
_The seeming needs of my fool-driven land_   
**\- William Butler Yeats**

* * *

**Chapter Two: All Things Can Tempt Me So**

**_Geralt of Rivia sank into the steaming_** hot bath with a sigh, stretching out and tilting his head to watch Avallac’h and Mererid as they discussed something by the door. The chamberlain retreated from the room and Avallac’h came to stand over him. Geralt squinted up at the elf and then sank beneath the water.

When he resurfaced, the elf had crossed his arms. “ _Gwynbleidd_ ,” the elf said, and gave him a meaningful look. “It is good to see you.” With that, he turned and stalked off, leaving Geralt sitting in the bath and frowning after him.

“That’s it?” Geralt asked, rising out of the bath. He ignored the water sluicing down his body and turned to follow the elf with his eyes as Avallac’h wandered about the room. “That’s all I get?”

“You gave _Zireael_ to Emhyr.” The elf turned to cast him a dark look and then picked up the glass decanter he’d stopped in front. He picked it up and eyed it thoughtfully, seemingly judging its weight. “You lied to me.”

And then he tossed it right at Geralt’s head.

Geralt ducked and clambered out of the copper tub, rolling until he could reach his swords. A hand clamped down on his and dragged him away from them. He looked up to find Avallac’h towering over him. “I get it,” he said, smiling slightly despite himself. “You’re mad because I told Ciri that she could do more good as Empress, right?”

Avallac’h hesitated, and Geralt took the opportunity to twist out of the elf’s hold and kick him into the wall. “ _Geralt_.”

“Avallac’h.”

The elf pushed off the wall and paused there, watching him with narrowed eyes. “I concede,” he said after a long moment. “I was mad, yes, but then I came here to see how she was fairing for myself…and, well. Zireael is fairing very well.” The elf’s expression twisted up into something pinched and disgruntled before smoothing out. “Emhyr, despite all outward appearances, is a doting father.” Then Avallac’h smirked at him. “Do not tell him I said that.”

Geralt snorted. “Of course not.”

Avallac’h studied him for a moment then sighed. “You do know what you have just done, right?”

He frowned. Just what was the elf hinting at? That Geralt had agreed to a contract—which was surely being written up in triplicate right this moment—and that Emhyr, the Imperator of Nilfgard, _Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd_ \--the White Flame Dancing on the Barrows of his Enemies--now owed him a favour? He tilted his head, eyeing the elf warily even as Avallac’h huffed out an irritated breath and crossed over to him.

“Do I?” Geralt asked and calmly got to his feet, brushing off his bare ass. The elf handed him a towel to dry off with and pointedly did not look at him. Avallach’s expression was tight, his lips a pale line cutting across his face and his jaw was visibly clenched.

“Must I spell it out for you?”

He considered the question for a moment, glancing about the room. It wasn’t the type of room he was usually given. In fact, if Geralt were a betting man, he would have said it was a suite quite close to Emhyr’s. It wasn’t like he hadn’t considered seducing the Emperor before. Emhyr was handsome. It just had never been the right time nor were there the right reasons to do so, and now they were going to be in close quarters for an extended period of time? Geralt should probably have been worried, but instead he was oddly thrilled. Why wouldn’t he know what he’d done?

“You have walked into Emhyr var Emreis’ trap.”

Geralt snorted. “What trap?” he asked, wrapping himself up in the large sheet-like towel. “I knew he wanted something from the start. What else would he offer me a contract for?” He frowned. “Although, it could just be a ploy to get me to stay close by for Ciri’s sake.”

“I do not think Zireael was aware that you would be arriving today,” Avallac’h said carefully, neutrally and Geralt gave him a narrow-eyed look. “Although, I doubt she will not know for long.” He cast a look towards the door. “I would expect her arrival any moment and suggest that you dress before she appears.”

“You mean literally,” Geralt muttered and wandered over towards the bed where Mererid had laid out a formal doublet and hose earlier. He eyed the outfit with distaste and then glanced over at the now-silent elf. “Avallac’h… What trap?”

The elf was watching him closely now, gaze darting to his injured side every now and then, and then to his face. “He means to use you, _Gwynbleidd—”_

“As a man uses a woman?” he asked, cutting off the elf. Avallac’h’s expression tightened and turned sour, and Geralt laughed. “As if I haven’t done that already, Avallac’h. What do you think a castle full of young, adolescent Witchers get up to at night during all those years training?”

Avallac’h grimaced and turned away. “How can it not bother you? It is Emhyr!”

Geralt’s eyebrows rose. Avallac’h was opposed to him and the Emperor? Or was it simply two men seeking pleasure in each other? He took a step away from the bed, towards Avallac’h. “The nature of our mission means it’s likely to happen, many times. It doesn’t bother me, but I don’t do it for myself or for Emhyr.” He gently touched the elf’s arm and waited until he’d turned to face him before he continued. “I do it for the slaves he speaks of.” He lowered his gaze to where his hand rested against Avallac’h’s arm. “No one deserves to be forced into something they don’t want… Not even children who never wanted to be Witchers, as much as we were needed at the time.”

“Geralt—”

And, of course, Ciri chose that moment to burst into the room in a flash of heat and light and the strong scent of ozone. “Geralt!”

They broke apart immediately and she hesitated, glancing between the two of them. Geralt took that small moment as an opportunity to give her a quick once-over, checking for injury or anything else that might be off with her. But Ciri was her usual self, although dressed in Nilfgaardian colours—gold and black—and in a dress for once. Geralt stared at her. His daughter looked beautiful.

“Did I interrupt something?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at him. Geralt glanced towards Avallac’h and shook his head, even as the elf muttered something under his breath in Elder Speech. Something that Geralt didn’t quite catch.. “No? I didn’t?” She laughed, and then grinned brightly. “Good!”

She made to move towards him and Avallac’h stepped between them. “Zireael,” he said and then spat something in Elder Speech—not the same as before, but still not something Geralt could understand—and Ciri hesitated. Then she glanced at him and raised both eyebrows.

“Really, Geralt?” Ciri asked, and Geralt lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “You and Emhyr?”

Geralt shot Avallac’h a sharp look. “What did the pointy-eared bastard tell you?”

Ciri smirked at him and shook her head. “I’m afraid it’d be indecent to repeat.”

That just made him glare a little harder at the elf, who’d wandered off several steps and was studiously eyeing the far wall. Geralt squinted at him for a moment longer then turned back to Ciri, suddenly hyper-aware of his lack of clothing. “What’s up his arse?”

She snorted. “Hell if I know.”

“I can hear you, you know.”

“We know, old man, and we don’t care!” Geralt called back, ignoring the sour look he got in return. He focused on Ciri again. “Uh, so…surprise?”

“Hello, Father.”

Geralt’s heart practically melted at the fond address, but he held himself back from just up and hugging his adoptive daughter. Instead, he cleared his throat and glanced up at the ceiling. “Uh, Ciri. I know we just saw each other for the first time in years, but could you give a man some privacy to get dressed?”

His daughter chuckled, making Geralt drop his gaze to see her grinning at him. “Of course, Father. In fact, I only popped in because I sensed your presence.” She spun on her heel and headed for the door. “I’m going to go have a few words with Emhyr now.”

“Good luck,” Geralt called out as she swept out the door, startling Mererid as the chamberlain arrived to attend him. The poor man spared her a confused look then shot him a glare. Geralt just held up his hands with a sly grin and a shrug. The towel fell to the floor around his feet and he delighted in the chamberlain’s exclamation of disgust and horror—especially considering the Princess was just in his rooms, apparently unchaperoned. At least Mererid calmed down as soon as he saw Avallac’h lingering behind him.

It took a little bit of explaining, but eventually the chamberlain calmed enough to attend Geralt as he’d been ordered, and soon enough—with a little padding over his wound on Avallac’h’s insistence, he was dressed and groomed and ready for dinner. With Emhyr, Ciri and Morvran Voorhis. Which he hadn’t been told about.

The doublet, once Mererid managed to convince him to wear it—with Avallac’h’s help, they traitor—was itchy but surprisingly comfortable. The hose wasn’t so bad either, so Geralt decided to humour the damned man and wear it. As to who he was humouring, well. He certainly couldn’t tell whether it was the chamberlain or his master. And trust Emhyr to sic the snooty man on him right after he’d had a bath.

Geralt subtly tried to adjust the hose—he couldn’t help it, it was riding up his ass!—and also pay attention to the names and the like that Mererid was rattling off at a fast pace. Avallac’h was an ever-present presence, just a step behind him. Almost like they were both herding him to where he was wanted. To where _Emhyr_ wanted him to be.

Which just happened to be the cosy, intimate Imperial Dining Hall. The private one, for family use—judging by the size of it, at least. Geralt had only been to Nilfgaard once, and that had been to escort Ciri to the very heart of the Nilfgaardian Empire. He’d stay a totally of two hours and then scurried off, back to the north. He’d definitely never been in the room, let alone this part of the palace, before.

“Ah, there he is.”

Geralt glanced towards the table at the sound of a somewhat unfamiliar—or was that vaguely familiar?—voice. He instantly recognised the man as Morvran Voorhis, his interrogator from when Emhyr had invaded Novigrad. Geralt’s gaze narrowed, catching the seating arrangement. It was a small table, suitable for five or six people, and Emhyr had Ciri and Morvran seated beside one another, across from where Emhyr himself was seated. Which left a seat to his right and two to his left free. Geralt deliberately chose to seat himself between Emhyr and Ciri. Avallac’h just glided over to one of the remaining seats and gracefully claimed it for himself.

“Didn’t know this was gonna be a family affair,” Geralt muttered, casting Ciri a sly look. She just narrowed her eyes at him, and then Emhyr was clearing his throat. He looked over at the Emperor and raised his eyebrows. “Yes?”

“Enjoy your bath, did you?” Emhyr asked, with a pointed look from Geralt to Ciri. Geralt deliberately lifted one shoulder and then slouched in his chair, glancing about the table. There was, actually, one more seat. Between Emhyr and Avallac’h, and Geralt didn’t have to guess at who it might be for.

Ciaran glided into the room from a door opposite the one Geralt had entered by and paused when he saw who was seated at the table. The elfling seemed to hesitate, considering the seating arrangement and Geralt’s presence carefully before he moved towards the remaining seat. He stumbled and then his gait smoothed out as he rounded the table and carefully took his seat beside Emhyr.

“I did enjoy the bath,” Geralt said, gaze narrowing. He watched Ciaran carefully as the elf settled into his seat. Emhyr lifted his arm and the elfling settled in against the man’s side, eyes lowered to the table. “So,” he added, jerking his chin towards the young elf practically glued to Emhyr’s side. “How long has that been going on?”

Emhyr sighed but it was Ciri who spoke up; “Avallac’h found him with Iorveth in Temeria several months. He had no memory of the war, the, uh…. Place that you and Triss found him, or who Iorveth was, let alone who he was.”

“Prison barge,” Ciaran mumbled from beneath Emhyr’s arm and Ciri shot him a worried glance. “At least, that’s what I was told…”

“Hush, _feainnewedd_ ,” Emhyr murmured, shifting his hand from the elf’s shoulder to his hair. Ciaran appeared to relax beneath the Emperor’s stroking hand. “You are safe here.”

Geralt watched their interactions with sharp eyes, confused as to Ciaran’s behaviour with Emhyr. He certainly didn’t remember that from his interactions with the _Scoia'tael._ The elf had been proud and stubborn, and as far as he or Triss had been able to tell, he’d never said a word to his torturer about Iorveth or the other _Scoia'tael_. Geralt had admired that once, but now… Now, the elf was a mere shadow of himself, still proud, still stubborn, but in an entirely different way. He had an air of unease about himself, like he wasn’t quite certain how he fit into the world anymore. It was…somewhat disturbing to see.

“And the old man brought him here, huh?” Geralt asked, glancing towards Avallac’h to see the older elf’s reaction. The elf was scowling at him. “Interesting.”

“I have a name, Witcher,” Avallac’h muttered. “Use it.”

Geralt just gave the elf a smirk. “Only if you beg me.”

Avallac’h stared at him, gaze narrowed and edging towards angry. Geralt stared back, mildly amused by the fact that it was so easy to get a rise out of the elf. He shifted in his seat, glancing towards where Ciri and Morvran sat. They appeared to be deep in conversation, heads leaned in close and voices lowered. Geralt tried not to pay attention their whispered conversation about some senate business he didn’t care to know. Emhyr’s little snort of amusement drew Geralt’s gaze back to the other man. The Imperator of Nilfgaard was watching him with smouldering, knowing eyes and a slight tilt to the corner of his mouth. Emhyr was definitely amused.

“I think that’s enough flirting at the table,” Emhyr said, and gave the elf curled under his arm a little pat on the shoulder. Geralt watched as Ciaran straightened up and retreated to his own seat, and then Emhyr gestured for the servants to begin filing in. It was a gracefully organised dance of course after course after course. Or was it just dish after dish? Geralt wasn’t sure and didn’t really care. As long as he got to eat—healing used up a lot of a Witcher’s stamina—then he was happy. So, as a servant placed a plate heaped with food in front of him and another offered him a glass of what appeared to be something very strong, he put all thoughts of Ciaran and Ciri and Morvran, and even of Emhyr, out of his mind.

Dinner was a quiet affair, and Geralt figured that his presence there had altered some unspoken, delicate balance the group had reached and that he was upsetting the hierarchy. Especially Ciaran. So he ate and he listened, saying little—unless Ciri spoke to him—and focusing on all the nuances lingering about the room, from the way Ciaran always deferred to Emhyr or Avallac’h, to the way Ciri and Morvran leaned in close together to have a quiet conversation or offer subtle, snide comments about one thing or another, to the way Emhyr was sitting in his seat. He’d caught a subtle shift in the Emperor’s scent back in Emhyr’s office, something that hinted at arousal but was evasive. It lingered, though, and Geralt couldn’t forget it, which is how he found himself trying to subtly take in every minute shift of muscle that Emhyr made.

So much so that it caught Ciri’s attention, and she kicked his foot underneath the table. Geralt shot her a look and she raised her eyebrows at him, tilting her head subtly in Emhyr’s direction. He shrugged at her and then grinned when she snorted out an amused little laugh.

“You’re obsessed,” she said, and Morvran choked on his wine. Ciri absently gave him a thump on the back, gaze still locked on Geralt’s. “Stop staring. It’s weird.”

“What’s weird?” Ciaran asked, speaking up for the first time. They turned to look at him, and Geralt caught Emhyr’s suspicious gaze. It lingered on him and made his skin tingle and burn everywhere it touched. “What’s the Witcher obsessed with?”

Ciri snorted out another laugh and turned away, hand covering her mouth. Geralt just looked from Ciaran to Emhyr to Ciri and back, blinked slowly and then swallowed his mouthful of food. He caught the narrow-eyed look that Emhyr sent Ciri’s way, before the Emperor was giving them both a disgruntled look. He waited until the Emperor went back to eating before he spoke.

“I have no idea what she’s talking about,” he said, deadpan. Ciaran frowned, but a gesture from Emhyr had the elfling distracted enough to turn his attention elsewhere. Geralt doubted that either of the elves would forget about this dinner, and Morvran was certainly not going to. _Neither_ , he thought, _will Emhyr_. The man was like a bloodhound on a hunt; he wouldn’t stop until he got to the truth of things. It was what made him such a good ruler. He turned on Ciri with a wicked grin. “Clearly, Ciri’s had too much to drink.”

“I have not!” she exclaimed and Geralt just smirked at her.

After that, things went a little pear-shaped. Emhyr was abruptly called away, and he took Morvran with him. Then Avallac’h retired, and he took Ciaran with him, which left Geralt all alone with his daughter. Who eyed him thoughtfully, leaned back in her chair and gave him a meaningful look.

“So,” she said, watching him carefully. “What, exactly, is it that you two are planning?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Geralt said and pushed back from the table. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight, Ciri.” He glanced about the room. Mererid was lingering by the door, directing a couple of servants to clean up the table. He glanced back to find that Ciri had also stood. She gave him a confused look, said goodnight to him and then swept out of the room. He made to follow and was swiftly intercepted by Mererid, who escorted him back to the room that Geralt was now sure was attached to Emhyr’s. He wasn’t going to question it, considering Emhyr had said he wanted Geralt to play bodyguard. Bodyguard and, apparently, slave.

Later that night, after Geralt had been escorted to his room and read over the extensive and detailed contract Emhyr had had written up, he found himself wondering just what, exactly, he’d gotten into. Avallac’h had been right. He had just walked into Emhyr’s trap, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to escape. The lingering hint of Emhyr’s arousal, the way the man smirked at him and his tone of command when he order people around… Well, it all got Geralt’s blood pumping and his cock hard. He wasn’t sure if he could abide by all of the Emperor’s rules and stipulations, either.

 _This contract_ , he thought sourly as he stared up at the bed’s canopy, _is going to be torture._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations;  
> Gwynbleidd = white wolf.  
> Zireael = swallow.  
> Feainnewedd = Sun-Child/Child of the Sun.  
> Scoia'tael = squirrel/s.  
> Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd = the White Flame Dancing on the Barrows of his Enemies (of course).
> 
> Also, Avallac'h was probably saying something rather insulting and quite inventive about Geralt and his contract with Emhyr when Ciri appeared after Geralt's bath. Feel free to use your imagination there. XD
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. My Foe Beheld It Shine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is chapter three! Later than I intended but here nonetheless! I've been working on chapters for multiple works, so expect some more chapters soon. XD
> 
> Enjoy!

_there is blood on the land_   
_there is blood in my hand_   
_i told my wrath_   
_it did not end_   
**_\- Henry Delk._ **

* * *

**Chapter Three: My Foe Beheld It Shine**

**_Emhyr stared out over the palace gardens_** from his balcony, leaning against it with a strong cup of coffee in his hands as he watched the sun rise. It was one of the few times he had a spare moment free, as he’d been up for over two hours already. Mererid had been furious, but he’d relented, and the man remained a constant presence behind him as he bustled about the room. He hadn’t slept well the previous night; he’d gotten a report about the discovery of a deceased slave and that had been after he’d received the report about Avallac’h’s conversation with Geralt and Cirilla. From Cirilla herself. It seemed the elf still had doubts about him, though he was sure he’d put them to rest. Apparently, he had not.

Emhyr sighed and sipped his drink, blinking against the sun’s slow, burning ascent into the sky. He would have to move soon and continue the work he’d started two hours ago. The dead slave was a problem, and far more important than the opinions of one elf. Although, he had found that Geralt’s little speech was not the narrow-minded nonsense the Nordlings tended to spout. It was refreshing, and rather fascinating to discover that the Witcher was not unfamiliar with the pleasure of a male lover. He smiled and lowered the cup. He supposed he’d have to get a little creative with the Witcher if they were going to pursue this farce. No sense in denying themselves a little fun. If the Witcher was amendable to it, which he, indeed, seemed to be.

“Mererid,” he called, and heard the man’s footsteps approach the balcony. The Impera Brigade—two of which flanked the balcony doors—didn’t even so much as twitch when his chamberlain approached. Emhyr turned to face him, setting his cup down on a nearby table.

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Summon the Witcher to attend me,” he said as he passed into his study. Mererid raised an eyebrow at him, but bowed all the same and went out. Emhyr turned to eye the two Impera Brigades who stood by the open balcony doors, then glanced at the six others spread out across the room. He sighed. “When the Witcher arrives,” he said, catching the eye of the closest Impera. “You may all leave us.”

One eye of the man gazing back at him twitched. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

Emhyr snorted and turned to stride across the room to his desk. He ignored the men guarding him and took a seat, shuffling papers around as he waited. Even if his bodyguards did not agree, they would do as he said. They were loyal to the bone, and only loyal to him. He didn’t care if they didn’t trust the Witcher or not. Emhyr, strangely, did trust Geralt. He knew the Witcher wasn’t going to compromise Cirilla’s chance to rule, not when it hadn’t been set into stone yet. Not when Morvran’s parents were still intend on trying to push him on Cirilla, and therefore still trying to make him Emperor, after five years. It was one reason why both he and Cirilla had stretched the potential engagement out as long as they had. He really would have to do something about them if they kept pushing the issue.

He was deeply immersed in a report on the slave and the poor girl’s injuries when there was a knock on the door. Emhyr glanced up, caught the eight or so Impera all looking towards the door, and sighed. He’d have to let Geralt read the report, even though it was thoroughly detailed and written in Nilfgaardian. He wasn’t sure if the Witcher understand much of the language, but from the looks that Geralt had given him last night during dinner, he would be safe to assume that Geralt knew more than he let on. Emhyr set the report aside and reached for the brandy decanter that he’d left on the desk to pour himself a glass. He had a feeling both he and Geralt would need it. But not too much lest he dull his senses.

“Come,” he called, and the door opened. Mererid entered the room with the Witcher close on his heels. Emhyr glanced towards the Impera. “Leave us.”

The Impera moved as one; all eight men clapping their arms over their chests and then filing out of the room. Including the four that had been stationed in his bedroom. Emhyr leaned back in his seat, gaze going to where Geralt stood watching the men leave, his eyebrows raised. Mererid calmly bowed and turned on his heel to leave the room. He even closed the door behind him.

There was a pregnant pause as Geralt looked about the room, and then the man strode over to the seat opposite him and dropped into it without a word. He sat there for a moment, and then leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms and raised both eyebrows at him.

“Emhyr.”

“Geralt,” he said neutrally and the Witcher squinted at him. Emhyr lifted the glass. “Brandy?”

Geralt grunted and hauled himself out of the seat, crossing to the sideboard where a selection of glasses sat. Emhyr watched as he selected one and then returned to his seat. “So,” the Witcher said as he poured himself a brandy. “What’d you summon me for this time?”

Emhyr snorted. “I thought we could discuss the terms, so to speak.”

“Terms?” The Witcher frowned at him, pausing with the glass mid-way to his mouth. “What d’you mean by terms? Are we negotiating a treaty?”

At that, Emhyr snorted again. He was very tempted to outright laugh at it, but he thought that might disturb the Witcher more than reassure him. Emhyr set his glass down and pulled over his copy of the Witcher contract. He knew Geralt had read it, but what the Witcher hadn’t read was the more scandalous section that Emhyr had written himself. A rather more… personal and intimate contract, complete with all waivers and appropriate paperwork. He’d had Mererid procure it, and then he’d…well, filled out his portion. He separated it from the Witcher contract and then set the more personal contract down in front of Geralt.

“If we’re going to do this, we need to establish rules,” Emhyr said and gestured to the papers. “It’s best you read that and fill it out to the best of your ability.”

Geralt set down his glass and pulled the papers closer. While he began to read them, Emhyr retrieved his glass and sipped at it, watching the Witcher’s reactions like a hawk. It took the man several minutes, but when he was done, he glanced up and met Emhyr’s level gaze with a raised eyebrow. “Are you serious?”

“Completely,” he replied and picked up the report on the slave. Geralt’s gaze narrowed and Emhyr dropped his own to the report. “After all, if I do not know your limitations and what you will and won’t do, how will I effectively portray myself as the Master? And you as the slave?”

Silence. Emhyr resisted the urge to glance up from the very detailed description of mutilations to the poor girl’s back. He’d let the Witcher stew a little longer and keep his unbothered Emperor façade up for a little longer. How was Geralt going to react? Would he actually fill it out? Would he see Emhyr’s section? The thoughts and questions and doubts swirled in his head until he heard the chair Geralt sat on creak, followed closely by a long-suffering sigh.

“People actually consent to this shit?” Geralt muttered and Emhyr glanced over the top of the report at him with a raised eyebrow. The man was focused on a page of the contract, reading it carefully before flipping to the next. Emhyr had written it in Nilfgaardian and Common, and Geralt was reading the Nilfgaardian copy. Well, the Witcher was full of surprises. “The fuck is a sound?”

Emhyr smirked. “I could show you.”

Geralt glanced up sharply and caught him smirking. His gaze narrowed and Emhyr’s smirk grew. “No thanks,” the Witcher muttered, glancing back down at the paperwork. He turned the page and froze. “Nevermind,” he said, voice hoarse. “There’s descriptions…”

That reaction made Emhyr curious. He watched Geralt a little more closely from then on, splitting his attention between the report—that he wasn’t actually reading—and the Witcher. Who was growing more and more rigid the longer he focused on the contract. Emhyr waited until the man was completely still before setting the report down and leaning forward to plant a hand in the middle of the page Geralt had been staring at. The Witcher jerked his head up to meet Emhyr’s gaze with wide eyes. He could see that the amber had been almost completely consumed by black.

“Are you alright, Geralt?” he asked, concerned. Geralt stared at him for several moments before he blinked and shook his head. “Geralt?”

“I’m fine,” the Witcher muttered, but there was still a hoarse edge to his tone that betrayed him. Emhyr decided to ignore it and simply waited. Geralt glanced down at where Emhyr’s hand still rested on the page, then back up. “Why’s it so detailed? And why did you write it instead of your many scribes? Or even Mererid?”

Emhyr retrieved his hand and leaned back in his seat. Of course the Witcher could tell his and Mererid’s handwriting apart. He hadn’t expected any less of the man, to be honest. “Do you really think I’d let anyone other than myself, you and Mererid see what makes me tick, Geralt?” he asked, tilting his head to the side as he picked up his glass of brandy again. “A contract, Geralt, that lays out all the things I do and do not like in the bedroom—and beyond—that anyone not loyal to me may see and use to harm me and mine?” He snorted and looked away. “I’m not stupid, Geralt.”

For several minutes, the Witcher was silent, and then he cleared his throat, drawing Emhyr’s gaze back to him. He waited, and the Witcher did not disappoint.

“I don’t know what half this shit is, Emhyr.”

“Only half?” he asked and picked up his quill. Then he handed it to Geralt. He knew the Witcher could write. He’d seen it once, and had reports from several sources. “Fill out whatever you are familiar with. If you wish, we can explore the rest later.”

“As you wish,” Geralt muttered, taking the quill gingerly. And then he hesitated, gaze lingering on the report that Emhyr had been reading. “That from last night?”

Wordlessly, Emhyr handed it over to him. The Witcher took it, gave a quick glance and then set it aside with a grimace. And then, finally, he flipped back to the beginning of the contract, bent over it with the quill and got to writing. Emhyr watched him for a moment, then picked up his glass and frowned when he found it empty. Surely he hadn’t drunk the entire thing while he had been subtly watching Geralt? He sighed and just poured himself more brandy, then settled in to wait for the Witcher to finish with the paperwork.

As he watched Geralt go through the other contract, his attention drifted. What, exactly would the Witcher like? Would he like to be bound and thoroughly used? Would he consent to a good caning, or perhaps even a sensual whipping? Would he be quiet or loud in bed? Would he beg? Or would he force Emhyr to make him beg? The possibilities were tantalizing, and Emhyr found himself thoroughly distracted. He knew from the report on Geralt’s conversation with Avallac’h that the Witcher was no stranger to sex between men, but just what experience did the man have? Emhyr was aware of Geralt’s preference for beautiful, powerful sorceresses. Would that preference translate into powerful men? He couldn’t help being aroused by the idea, but first, he would know of Geralt’s limits. And have his consent, or it would all be for naught.

“Emhyr?”

He blinked and focused on the Witcher, who was watching him with a raised eyebrow. “Yes?”

“I just called your name several times,” Geralt said and tapped the personal contract before him. Emhyr blinked again, slowly. The Witcher’s gaze narrowed and then he sniffed, but he didn’t comment on anything. Emhyr knew that a Witcher’s senses were enhanced; he just wasn’t sure _how_ enhanced. “What were you distracted by?”

Emhyr went very, very still and watched Geralt watch him warily. “Nothing.”

“Uh, huh,” the Witcher muttered and then tossed the quill onto the desk. Emhyr winced. It had been a gift from Cirilla. He glanced down at the quill, then past it to the contract that Geralt had filled out. The Witcher wordlessly pushed it towards him and Emhyr picked it up. He waited until Geralt had picked up the report and started reading it before he turned his attention to the contract. Geralt had filled out quite a few of the less unusual things, and a couple of others—such as bondage; Emhyr raised an eyebrow at that but decided not to comment on it—as well as one or two things that even Emhyr hadn’t done. Well, wasn’t the Witcher the adventurous type.

A few of the other things on the list—including the sound—were marked in the assertive, while others were marked in the negative. Geralt, it seemed, was even fine with the master-slave dynamic but it appeared to be mostly in the sense of when they were undercover. Emhyr memorised what he needed to, then he set it aside and focused on Geralt again.

Geralt slowly lowered the report. “You think this is related to the slavery ring you mentioned before?” he asked, gesturing to the paperwork. Emhyr nodded, and the Witcher glanced down at it with a frown. “Nasty work…” He trailed off thoughtfully and finally set the report down on the table. “So, we’re assuming she was a slave?”

“Yes,” Emhyr said, and went to pour them both more brandy. “That’s the assumption.”

“She was tortured first.”

Again, he nodded. “That much,” Emhyr muttered as he picked up his glass, “I could infer.”

“Horribly.”

“Yes, I am aware.” He took a sip from his glass and set it down carefully. “Keep reading.”

Geralt picked up the papers again and scanned his eyes over the very detailed report. He froze when he reached the part that had pissed Emhyr off to no end. He watched with interest as Geralt’s jaw clenched and his eyes darkened with anger. The Witcher’s fingers twitched, and he calmly set the report down again with a grimace of disgust.

“She was…”

“Pregnant, yes,” Emhyr finished for him, and Geralt’s angry expression smoothed out. If he hadn’t been watching the other man closely, he might have missed it. And Emhyr was nothing if not perceptive. He set his glass down and picked up the report, flipping to the page that Geralt had been reading. “Most distressing…”

“It’s disgusting,” Geralt muttered and picked up his brandy, downing it quickly before he reached for the decanter. Emhyr noted the slight sound of cracking glass and the hairline fracture he could now see travelling down one side of the thick, boldly cut glass. He sighed, but Geralt continued before he could speak. “How could they… Monsters…” The Witcher trailed off with a growl into some Northern dialect that Emhyr was having trouble following.

Emhyr sighed and leaned back in his chair. He let Geralt rant for a moment in his Northern tongue before he cleared his throat and leant forward to touch his fingers against the back of Geralt’s hand, the one that held the decanter. “Geralt.”

The Witcher’s furious amber cat-eyes fixed on him, and it sent a thrill through Emhyr even as he held Geralt’s gaze steadily. “ _Emhyr_.”

“Yes, Geralt?”

Geralt’s gaze narrowed. “I can smell your arousal, you know. You don’t have to hide it.”

Emhyr froze, and his gaze darted away from the Witcher’s. Geralt snorted but didn’t comment. Apparently, he was letting Emhyr figure out how he would respond to that. He’d known that a Witcher’s senses were enhanced, he just hadn’t been sure _how_ enhanced. That Geralt had picked up on his brief moment of interest wasn’t really all that surprising. Just unexpected. He exhaled heavily and flipped the report over so that he wouldn’t have to look at it.

“I forgot that you Witchers had such enhanced senses.”

Geralt chuckled. “Almost everyone forgets that little fact,” he said and set the decanter aside. “It’s handy for when we interrogate people. They think they can lie to us and it’s hilarious to see their faces when I tell them I don’t believe them.”

“That shall certainly be entertaining at some point,” Emhyr said with a sharp snort of amusement, then reached for his glass of brandy, but Geralt beat him to it and planted his palm over it. He shot the man a not-so-subtle glare and then raised an eyebrow. Geralt raised one right back. “Yes, Witcher?”

“I think you’ve had enough for today,” the man said lowly and Emhyr’s other eyebrow rose to join the currently raised one. “How many is that? Five? Six?” He squinted at the glass beneath his palm then looked at the decanter. He frowned and twisted in the chair to glance out the opened balcony doors. “It’s not even mid-morning yet, Emhyr.”

“And that’s a problem?” he asked, making Geralt jerk back round to face him. “I have no other appointments for the day.”

“But the Empire—”

“Can be handled by Cirilla for a day, Geralt. She’s to be empress by the end of this, so she may as well get some practice in.”

Geralt squinted at him. “You set this up on purpose,” he said, suspicion clouding his voice. “Why?”

Emhyr gave him a wicked smirk. “How about I show you?”


	4. Ignorant As The Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emhyr shows Geralt what he means and then he, ahem....plays with the Witcher a little. Unfortunately, their play is interrupted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I am literally dropping this at, like 1am my time with very little editing. Enjoy, etc. So sorry for the long wait! I hope it's worth it. XD

_From their pedantic Babylon  
_ _The careless planets in their courses,  
_ _The stars fade out where the moon comes.  
_ _And took their tablets and did sums;  
_ _I would be ignorant as the dawn_

**_\- William Butler Yeats_ **

* * *

**Chapter Four: Ignorant As The Dawn  
** ** _  
Emhyr led him into the room_ ** that adjoined what appeared to be his personal office, if the lack of grandiose furniture was anything to go by. Geralt followed at the slower pace, watching the Emperor's back as the man gestured him through the door first. Geralt took two steps in and stopped short. He blinked, taking in the display cases set along one wall, the cross in one corner and the padded bench set back against one wall and the large, sturdy-looking four-posted bed opposite the bench. In the middle of the room was a large, plush black and gold rug with a chaise lounge set next to it. Before the chaise was a low, black table with several decanters of liquor and several glass set upon it.

Geralt turned to met Emhyr's gaze, but the man had already moved over to a desk that Geralt hadn't noticed before. He snorted at that, because of course the Imperator of Nilfgaard would have a fucking desk in his damned sex dungeon. And that's what the room was; Emhyr's sex dungeon. Geralt was learning something new about the imposing Emperor of the North and South.

When Emhyr ignored him--by setting down what appeared to be the, uh, sex-contract he'd had Geralt fill out earlier, because of course he'd brought it with him--and settled in to lean a hip against the desk, Geralt shook his head and turned back to the room. 

He was very aware of Emhyr's intense gaze lingering on his back as Geralt explored the room. The display cases held a variety of floggers and whips--things that Geralt was somewhat familiar with--along with a not insignificant collection of what appeared to be some kind of....plug, various dildos--which Geralt had seen in Yennefer's possession more than once--and the aforementioned sounds. There was high quality and expertly crafted, as was to be expected of an Emperor's expectations and predilections.

The floggers and whips were all dark leather--usually black--with elegant and exquisite detail and were also in a variety of sizes and styles. Geralt touched the cat-o-nine tails sitting on top of the display case and sighed at the feel of supple, soft leather. That would leave marks, he knew, but it would not hurt. Perhaps bruise, if one were to put enough force behind it, but no... Emhyr clearly wasn't seeking to punish with these. He smiled and moved on to the next display.

The sounds were made in a variety of materials, mostly metals. Geralt could see gold and silver, at the least, and one set that were apparently made of some kind of stone that almost seemed to thrum at the tough of his fingers. He jerked his hand away from that set rather quickly when his medallion began to vibrate. Clearly, they had been magically imbued and he wasn't sure he was ready to know how just yet. Beside the enchanted sounds were a small collection of rings. Cock rings, if his memory of the contract was correct. He'd seen at least one in Yennefer's rooms once, but she had never asked if she could use it on him. He'd be willing to bet his left hand that they were all enchanted as well, and decided not to touch them. Who knew what Emhyr had commissioned them for.

Geralt glanced back once he reached the third display, wary of the way Emhyr gaze burned across his back. He raised at eyebrow when Emhyr just turned away. The other man had moved over to the chaise lounge and was pouring himself yet another glass of brandy. Geralt narrowed his gaze at that and turned back to the display--the dildos...and the smaller....plugs. He squinted at them and finally recognised them from the contract. Anal plugs. He reached out to touch on and hesitated, fingers hovering inches from the pale grey stone. Geralt frowned at it and jerked his hand back, deciding not to risk it.

"Are you done examining my collection, yet?"

He snorted and tugged the top drawer of the third display open only to find a collection of silk ropes, leather restraints and blindfolds set out neatly inside. Geralt slammed the drawer shut, feeling his mutations try and fail to stop the blood from rushing to cheeks. He took a moment to steady himself, squeezing his eyes shut and sucking in a deep breath.

Bad idea.

Geralt froze as the fading scents of sex, pleasure-pain and arousal flooded his senses, along with the more recent scent of  _Emhyr_ and  _arousal_ that drifted over to him from the Emperor's direction. He had to grab the edge of the display case to hold himself still, fighting his conflicting urges to leave or stay. He was so very tempted to do something very, very stupid. Like fall on the Imperator of Nilfgaard like a horny adolescent.

"Geralt?"

"I'm fine," he spat, forcing his eyes open. He fixed his gaze on an empty space of wall and sighed. Emhyr had had the place painted a nice and soothing dark grey with faded gold accents. Because of course he had. Geralt sighed, exhaling heavily and pushing off the wooden display. He turned and stalked towards where Emhyr sat, casually stretched out on the chaise lounge. "Are you trying to kill me?"

Emhyr raised an eyebrow at him and sipped his brandy. "Oh? Whatever do you mean?"

"Was it your intention to work me up by bringing me here?"

The Emperor's eyebrow climbed a little higher and he lowered the glass. "Were you not curious about my collection?" he asked, leaning forward to set the glass down on the table gently. "You had expressed an interest in it several items."

Geralt looked skywards and sighed. "Of fucking course you took note of that."

"Is that a problem?" Emhyr asked softly, drawing Geralt's gaze back down. And that was when Geralt finally noticed that Emhyr was not as impeccably dressed as he usually was. He'd undone several buttons and shrugged off his topmost layer of clothing, leaving him only in a light jacket and a thin shirt beneath it. It was the shirt buttons he's undone, leaving a lovely sliver of pale, slightly scarred skin on display.

"No," Geraly whispered and swallowed shallowly. Now that he was closer, he could smell Emhyr a little more clearly. The man smelled of arousal and brandy, but the brandy was not as strong as he'd thought it should be and he frowned. "No problem. Are you even tipsy right now?"

The Emperor snorted. "It will take more than half a dozen or some brandys for me to be inhibited enough not to consent to anything, if that's what you're worried about."

Geralt looked away and focus on the room again. It was well-lit with soft, flickering magical flames that seemed to burn nothing around them. Magelight, Geralt noted and cast his drifting attention back to Emhyr. "Is there a reason for our visit here?"

"Yes, actually," Emhyr said with a slight frown and leaned back against the chaise lounge. "I wished to test you."

"Test me?" Geralt frowned, crossing his arms over his chest and trying not to rip the doublet that Mererid have forced him into not even an hour ago. "Test me how, Emhyr? By driving me to distraction?"

Emhyr just raised an eyebrow. "I wish to see you kneel."

He gave the Emperor a dark look and snorted. "No."

The Emperor sighed. "Geralt, if this is to work, then you will need to kneel for me, whenever I wish for it. It is imperative for our cover to be maintained." Emhyr raised one hand to rub elegant fingers across his forehead and temple. "Please, witcher, humour me just this once."

Geralt sighed, loudly, and uncrossed his arms. "Very well, then, your majesty."

Emhyr slowly lowered his hand and gave him an unreadable look. For a long moment, that's all his did and it sent Geralt anxiety and anticipation skyrocketing. He waited patiently, gazing back steadily as the Emperor just watched him. He could only faintly smell the other man's interest now, and it was puzzling. How in all of the continent did Emhyr do that?

Suddenly, the Emperor leaned forward and gave him a slow, sensual smile.

" _Kneel._ "

Geralt tensed at the power in the word, in the subtle inflections and meanings that Emhyr had put into and behind the word. He felt himself hardening in his pants, felt the blood rushing south, felt the way his eyes widened at the dark, sensual tone that Emhyr had used, and he slowly sank to his knees.

Emhyr sat back with a tiny smirk tilting up the corners of his mouth. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" he said, so casually that Geralt almost-- _almost_ \--missed the way his breath was coming a little sharper than Emhyr probably intended it to. Emhyr raised a hand to his throat, tracing his fingers over the hollow at the base of it before letting his fingertips slip lower. It appeared to be an unconscious act, but Geralt could see through it. Judging by the slight glint of humour in Emhyr's eyes, it had been a calculated movement. And it worked--Geralt was fully hard in his pants now, and Emhyr had barely done more than talk to him. When had the Emperor gotten so good as seduction? "We'll turn you into a well-behaved pet in no time, won't we?"

"Do you toy with all you lovers like that?" he asked, and Emhyr's movement hesitated briefly. Geralt watched him closely as the Emperor's eyes narrowed and he dropped his hand down to rest on a knee. "Or do you just enjoy watching them fall all over themselves for a chance at gracing your bed?"

"Do you  _want_ to be punished?" Emhyr sounded almost annoyed, but there was also a hint of amusement in his voice.

Gealt smirked. "Why don't you tell me?"

The slow, sensual smile he got was worth the back-talking. Emhyr rose slowly, a little stiffly--which had Geralt frowning, but he decided that he'd ask Emhyr about it later--and came around the low table to stand before him. They stared each other down for a moment before Emhyr's hand darted out and fingers dug into Geralt's hair, clenching tightly as Emhyr jerked his head back.

"Now that," he said, expression thoughtful, "is a habit that you'll need to be broken of before we decided to descend in the city's concealed depths."

Geralt chuckled, low and husky. "Ah, what did you have in mind, sire?"

Emhyr leaned down to put them at eye level, mouth inches from Geralt's. He stared into Geralt's eyes for a moment, humming thoughtfully. Geralt just knelt there and waited, hoping to see where it all went and if Emhyr was intending to act on his arousal or not. He could smell it again, and couldn't help inhaling deeply, nostrils flaring, to get a sense of what Emhyr wanted. The Emperor's gaze narrowed again and he tightened his grip.

"When we are, shall we say? In character?" Emhyr raised an eyebrow at him, and Geralt couldn't help noticed how dark the Emperor's eyes were now. "You'll wear a collar." Geralt tensed and Emhyr sighed, easing up on his hold on Geralt's hair. "Do not worry; it will serve a dual purpose. Firstly, it will mask who you are and make you look different....and secondly, it will make you look like the slave you are supposed to be."

Geralt's gaze narrowed. "You just want to collar me and bring me to heel--"

"Nonsense."

"Don't lie to me, Emhyr," he hissed, reaching up to grab the other man's wrist. "I can smell it, remember?"

Emhyr went still, eyes locked on Geralt's. The tension was so thick that Geralt was sure he'd be able to cut it with a butter-knife. "Fine, perhaps I do, but that is  _beside the point,_ Geralt." He scoffed at the words, but didn't interrupt Emhyr. "The point being that we are supposed to be playing our parts. If you cannot do so, then I will find another--"

"I signed your damn contracts, Emhyr, so shut up and tell me the fucking plan," Geralt hissed, grip tightening on Emhyr's wrist, "so we can get this damned job over and done with. I want to go back on the Path as soon as possible."

The Emperor's gaze narrowed and he flattened his lips into a thin, grim line. "Fine," he ground out and Geralt released the man's wrist. He caught a glimpse of steadily darkening skin and tried not to be too concerned about it. If Emhyr had a problem with it, then he could take it out on his ass. Geralt wasn't going to apologise for his desire to get the job over and done with. "Then let's begin."

Two hours later, Geralt was still kneeling on the floor of Emhyr's fucking sex dungeon with a thick leather gag in his mouth and his arms intricately strapped to the small of his back. The black silk ropes wouldn't hold him, but that wasn't the point. The point, as Emhyr had pointed out, was for Geralt to learn some damned patience. Apparently, his desire to rush the job, as Emhyr put it, was counterproductive to ever damned plan Emhyr had been laying out in the weeks and months before his contracting of Geralt. 

And Emhyr wasn't even looking at him.

Geralt grunted around the gag and tried to spread his knees a little wider to counteract the pressure and feel of silk against his fucking balls. Emhyr had made him strip down and then proceeded to truss him up in intricate layers and designs of rope before retreating to the desk and pulling some paperwork towards him. Geralt was fairly sure it was the, uh, more personal contract, but Emhyr was giving him no clues whatsoever to work with. It was made worse by he fact that he was still hard--had been the entire time--and the sensation of silk rubbing acoss the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, his chest, especially the nipples, and his wrists was utterly distracting. There was just something about the feel of silk rope pressed tightly against his wrists that was undoing him, and Geralt couldn't quite explain it.

He shifted again and Emhyr glanced up from his paperwork. Their eyes met and the Emperor just watched him steadily for a moment before picking up his drink--the one he'd retrieved from the table by the chaise lounge--and took a slow sip before setting it down again. Geralt felt himself drifting again and jerked himself back, too angry to enjoy the sensation. _Emhyr,_ he thought with a scowl in the man's direction, _really was a bastard._

Just when Geralt thought he was about to break and tear himself loose, there was a soft knock on the door and Emhyr's head jerked up. He watched as the man sighed, stood up slowly and headed for the door. Geralt watched closely as Emhyr opened his own damned door and spoke softly to whoever was outside. Most likely, it was Mererid, Emhyr's chamberlain. Geralt strained to hear their soft conversation, but it was mostly in Nilfgaardian, and even he was having trouble deciphering it from where he knelt, bound and gagged. He swallowed, tongue pressing against the gag as he watched Emhyr step out of the room briefly. 

The door closed and their conversation cut off, but moments later, Emhyr was stepping back into the room and closing the door firmly behind him with a soft, "I'll be right out."

Emhyr crossed to where he knelt and his hands immediately went to the clasp of the gag Geralt wore. As soon as it was free, Geralt cleared his throat and asked, "What's wrong?"

"There's been another," Emhyr replied, keeping his voice low as he set the gag down on the low table nearby and returned to start undoing the bindings Geralt wore. He didn't need to clarify what that mean, either. Geralt knew; it was another dead slave. "We need to investigate, but first you and I are going to bathe."

Geralt blinked slowly, not quit aware of what Emhyr meant by that. "Bathe?"

"Yes, Geralt," Emhyr said slowly, patiently. "Bathe. You've been drifting on and off for quite a while now, and I like to ensure my... _toys_ , as you so crudely put it, are of sound mind before I let them loose on the city."

He blinked again, just as slowly, and let Emhyr untie him. The silk ropes came free easily and Emhyr set those aside as well. He let the Emperor gently rub the feeling back into his wrists and hands, and then his thighs. For a several moments, he was content to just kneel there and let Emhyr do whatever he wanted, but he must have drifted again, because the next thing he knew, he was in warm water with Emhyr's hands cupping his face.

"Geralt," the man said and he frowned. "I need you to pay attention." He hummed and the Emperor let out a greatly put-upon sigh. "You are very easily susceptible to the ropes, but you must focus." He shook Geralt a little, and some of the fog clouding his mind receded. When had they gotten into the bath. "I need the witcher now, not the thrall.  _Focus_."

"Emhyr?" Geralt asked, slightly confused. He was suddenly having a little trouble focusing, on putting his thoughts in order. He knew he'd been angry earlier, but now he couldn't even think and Emhyr's lips were distracting. He must've said that last part out loud, because the lips in question quirked up into an amused smile and Geralt vaguely registered that he'd seen the most emotion out of Emhyr in just a few hours than he'd ever seen before. Including when he'd brought Ciri to the palace. "Hm?"

"Well, well, witcher, aren't you full of surprises?" Emhyr mused and that finally got Geralt to snap out of it. He frowned, but Emhyr continued as if he hadn't noticed. "I think I shall have quite a bit of fun with this little detail."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

Emhyr chuckled. "There he is!"

Geralt jerked away from him and hissed when his back hit the edge of the bath. He looked about and his scowl deepened. They were in Emhyr's private bathing rooms, apparently, and Mererid was in the room, organising a pile of clothing or cloth--Geraly wasn't sure--on a nearby wooden bench.

"What the fuck did you do to me?" he growled, planting a hand firmly on Emhyr's chest when the man tried to crowd in on him. Geralt rubbed a hand over his face, trying to shake off the last of the fog. Emhyr stilled and made no move to approach, though he didn't back off, either. "What the hell? Why do I feel so..."

"Awful?" Emhyr suggested and Geralt shot him a glare. "You were in a state of what we call  _aen ensh'eass cáelm_ ; the enchanted calm."

"Shut up," Geralt hissed, looking away. "I know what it means."

"You may know what the words are, Geralt, but not the meaning behind them--" Emhyr cut himself off and glanced towards the chamberlain. "But now is not the time." He nodded to the man and moved away slightly. Geralt noted that it wasn't too far, just enough to give him room without smothering him, but not enough to leave him alone entirely. "Ready yourself. We're about to go hunting."

He mood brightened at that, with the possibility of violence. "You have a lead?"

"Perhaps," the other man said, somewhat evasively, and looked away. "We won't know until we arrive at the scene." Emhyr's expression darkened and his eyes darted towards Mererid. "They have secured the area and have left it undisturbed?"

"Yes, your majesty." Mererid gave him a bow. "Captain de Rideaux saw to it personally, along with several of the City Guard." With that, he returned to busying himself with organsing the items on the bench.

Emhyr's gaze darted back to him, and Geralt swore he could see something that almost looked like concern in the other man's eyes. Geralt squinted at him and Emhyr huffed, stretching him arms out along the edge of the in-floor bath.

"Well, then," Geralt drawled, absently picking up the soap that was sitting in a small dip nearby, "I suppose we had best get to work."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations;  
> aen ensh'eass cáelm = the enchanted calm (I know it's said in-chapter but I thought I'd drop it in here, too, just 'cause.)


End file.
